


your ivy grows

by sketchedsmiles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, I'm not as funny as matsuhana so I made it angsty, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Post-Time Skip, this fic has a lot of pain but also a lot of softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchedsmiles/pseuds/sketchedsmiles
Summary: When Hanamaki Takahiro shows up on Matsukawa’s doorstep after being fired from his second job in a row, it’s instinctual for Matsukawa to offer him a place to stay until he gets back on his feet again.It doesn’t take long for the cracks in Hanamaki’s cheerful and upbeat exterior to appear, and it is up to Matsukawa to keep his best friend from falling over the edge completely.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 18
Kudos: 169





	your ivy grows

**Author's Note:**

> "my house of stone, your ivy grows and now i'm covered in you." —taylor swift, "ivy"

The chime of the doorbell echoed throughout his apartment at nine in the evening. At first, Matsukawa didn’t think much of it. He’d only made it home two hours ago after a long shift at the funeral home spent consoling the families of one of the later ceremonies, and he’d barely shoveled down his dinner before tossing himself onto the couch to mindlessly switch through the channels. His mind was in a muddled haze, unable to focus long enough on any one show at a time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kept up weekly with a television series. His job required too many long hours for him to maintain the energy needed for that kind of commitment.

Honestly, Matsukawa didn’t have any sort of commitments.

He lived alone in a cheap flat in Miyagi, only twenty minutes away from the funeral home he spent most of his time in. Most people would consider that morbid—as his siblings reminded him many, many times—but he couldn’t care less about superstitions or menial fears like sticking so close to the dead. He did that every day at his job anyway. Keeping this short of a distance saved him more money on gas.

He didn’t have a girlfriend—or any sort of romantic partner, really. He could probably find someone if he actually made the effort, but he lacked that sort of motivation. There simply wasn’t enough time in the day to split between his own needs and that of another person. If he was lucky, he remembered to check in with his family over the weekend. Sometimes, he remembered to call Iwaizumi. He caught up with Oikawa’s matches whenever he could.

The only real permanent fixture in his life was Hanamaki Takahiro. It wasn’t his own doing most of the time. Hanamaki was merely the kind of person that liked to remind you of his presence, sending multiple text messages filled with funny memes or threads even if Matsukawa didn’t respond immediately, calling for the briefest of conversations to ask the most trivial questions, and even stopping by without prior notice to spend a few days with Matsukawa.

Most of the time, Hanamaki’s presence was welcomed. If he had to pick one person in the world that matched him for every step he took, it was Hanamaki. But there were moments when Hanamaki surprised him still: like now, as Matsukawa swung open his front door after shuffling to it with a full-body yawn, only to find Hanamaki bouncing on his heels on the other side.

“Mattsun!” Hanamaki greeted. “Hi.”

Matsukawa rubbed one of his eyes with his fist in case he was seeing things. But he hadn’t fallen asleep on the couch. There was no reason for this to be a dream.

Seeing Hanamaki in person always felt like a dream. His light brown hair that contained a tinge of pink had grown longer post-graduation, falling over his forehead in gentle waves. The sly look he’d worn in high school had mellowed out with time, becoming something more sincere and mischievous instead. He hadn’t grown much, still resting a few centimeters beneath Matsukawa. It always gave Matsukawa some mental whiplash, forcing him back to high school when he’d seen Hanamaki each day and had spent most of his time getting him to laugh. Now, catching ahold of Hanamaki was like cradling a firefly between his hands: difficult and impermanent.

“Makki,” Matsukawa said. His eyes flicked to the suitcase that stood at Hanamaki’s side, and his gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“So. Funny story actually.” Hanamaki clapped his hands together. “I got fired! Again. Surprise. I had to come back to Miyagi because I can’t afford to pay rent and I haven’t been hired anywhere else. I didn’t really want to go back to my parents’ house because they’d feel bad, and I’d feel like even more of a disappointment. Then I considered staying at Neechan’s, but I don’t want her to feel responsible for me.”

The pieces were falling into place in front of him. He gripped the edge of the door tighter. “Uh-huh. So. You’re here.”

For the first time since his arrival, Hanamaki faltered. His shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

Matsukawa hated it when Hanamaki looked like this. He’d always been oozing with confidence, spine straight and chin high, but the real world had whittled Hanamaki down into a shadow of his former self. It was as though all of reality’s burdens had piled themselves onto his shoulders, and there was nothing Matsukawa could do to lighten the load.

“I won’t get in your way,” Hanamaki continued, his voice significantly smaller than it had been. “You won’t even notice I’m here. I’ll spend most of my days sending out resumes and filling out job applications. I’ll cook, and clean—”

“This is coming from the guy who found year-old candy in his locker when we had to clean up once we graduated.”

“And I might not be able to pay rent—”

“Fantastic.”

“But I will pay you!”

Matsukawa snorted and propped his hip against the door. “How, exactly?”

“With my friendship, love, and affection.”

“Lucky me.”

“And platonic blowjobs!”

At that, Matsukawa’s eyebrow twitched. “What? That’s not a thing.”

“Sure it is!” Hanamaki insisted, that teasing lilt returned to his voice. “It’s a brojob! You go out and work all day, and then you come home all tense, and I’ll—”

Matsukawa clamped a hand over Hanamaki’s mouth before the sentence could be finished. It was rare that Hanamaki managed to catch him off guard. Matsukawa’s neck felt warm.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Matsukawa warned. “That’s not a thing.”

He dropped his hand as Hanamaki waggled his eyebrows at him. “Well, how else am I meant to pay you back then?” He paused. “I really can’t pay rent.”

Matsukawa blew out a puff of air. He didn’t know why Hanamaki was getting so riled over paying him in some form. Matsukawa didn’t have a roommate because he could afford to support himself on his own income. Sure, an extra person around the flat might mean more expenses were divided towards groceries, but this was Makki he was talking about. The one person who could emerge out of the most trying situations as unruffled as he did.

“You don’t have to,” Matsukawa said. He kicked the door open further and stepped aside to give Hanamaki enough room to lug his suitcase into the doorway. “If you need somewhere to stay, all you have to do is ask.”

Matsukawa tried not to notice the way Hanamaki brightened. It wasn’t like he had gifted Hanamaki a new television or a car. It didn’t take much out of him to offer up the guest futon. Yet Hanamaki acted like Matsukawa was his saving grace. “Well, I’m asking,” Hanamaki said, heaving his suitcase through the front door. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Matsukawa held the door open long enough for Hanamaki to waddle through. “Did you eat dinner? When did you get here?”

“Like an hour ago.” Hanamaki bent at the waist to push the suitcase into Matsukawa’s living room. “I ate a crappy sandwich on the train.”

The door clicked behind him. Without the glow of the streetlights outside, the apartment became settled into darkness, and he almost couldn’t see Hanamaki until he noticed movement out of the edge of his vision.

“Stay still,” Matsukawa ordered. He slapped a hand onto the wall and fumbled for the light switch.

“Why is it so fucking dark, bro?”

“I’m _looking_ for the light. Give me a second.”

There was the distinct sound of someone’s foot coming into contact with the couch. “Fuck me!”

Matsukawa felt the light switch beneath his fingers, and he flicked it on, shrouding the apartment in artificial light once more. Hanamaki stood a little ways away, cradling his foot in his hand. He’d already dropped his shoes by the front door and pulled on a pair of slippers that Matsukawa left aside just for him during each of his visits. But that meant the pain of stubbing his toe was much worse.

“I told you to stay still,” Matsukawa said.

Hanamaki paused long enough to send him a flat look.

“So, you haven’t had an actual dinner. I had shio ramen earlier. I can make you a bowl.”

“I don’t need to eat dinner.”

“ _I can make you a bowl._ ” Matsukawa had to insist. He’d been around long enough to witness the spirals Hanamaki went down: the kinds of self-destructive patterns never started well or ended well. It was perhaps a sign that Matsukawa had grown himself. He was now an actual adult who thought about feeding himself and cleaning after himself and maintaining his personal hygiene without an adult around to mind him. It felt like a low bar to reach, but considering the kind of care-free attitude he embodied most of the time, it was a mark of self-improvement.

And he’d always been better at looking after Hanamaki than he’d been at looking after himself.

“Fine!” Hanamaki huffed, setting his foot down. “I’ll have some ramen.”

Matsukawa crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t mind the guest futon, right?”

“You should stop calling it the guest futon. I’m the only one who ever comes over. It’s basically _my_ futon.”

Ignoring that, Matsukawa pressed, “Can I set it up in my room? Or would you rather sleep out in the living room?”

“I can’t believe you’re inviting me into your bedroom already. I’ve just gotten here.”

Matsukawa headed into the kitchen, his mind compiling a list of all the ingredients he’d need to make Hanamaki’s dinner. He should have enough. If he started now, he could finish it and still crawl into bed at a reasonable hour. “It isn’t too late to kick you out.”

“You’d never do that,” Hanamaki called after him. “You love me too much.”

* * *

Being a funeral home employee wasn’t as frightening as most people assumed. It wasn’t like he spent most of his working hours cremating bodies or consoling teary-eyed loved ones—although that did take up a lot of his time. There wasn’t an undefinable chill in the air that came from his area of work. If he was being completely honest—which he hated because he liked being able to alarm people with made-up stories about the horrors of working in a funeral home—it was like any other job.

Too much paperwork, and too many long hours.

Most of that paperwork pertained to filling out death certificates, meaning his time is split between contacting family members of the deceased and then phoning a doctor in order to confirm the situation surrounding the death. It was an arduous process that was spent beneath the pressures of time as death certificates had to be filled out within a certain time frame. Most of this paperwork was shoveled onto Matsukawa.

Not that he particularly minded. He wasn’t quite in touch with the emotional side of working at a funeral home. If he ever had to console a grieving family member, he became wide-eyed in an instant, thrusting numerous pamphlets in their hands filled with contact information for counselors and therapists. His advice usually came in the form of clear-cut candor, not suiting the lighter touch that certain circumstances required. He could be too brash at times.

The only other employee at the moment besides the manager was his long-time co-worker—Onishi Akito. The two of them were close in age, though she was a year younger than him. But they’d started working at the funeral home around the same time, both being called in for interviews and breezing through the application process. Although they spent most of those beginning weeks with other more experienced employees around to guide them and fix their mistakes, as the years had passed, it became more common for the two of them to share more shifts alone.

She was notorious for hating the paperwork side of the job. Most of her assignments were pushed onto Matsukawa, but he didn’t entirely mind so long as she doted during ceremonies and bore most of the bubble of grief that surrounded them.

But she’d been called into an earlier ceremony and had yet to return, meaning Matsukawa was left alone to file at his desk. He’d gone through a great deal of the pile that mocked him for days now, and his lunch break had loomed upon him quicker than he’d expected it to. He finished the certificate he was in the middle of, said his goodbyes to the relative he’d contacted in order to confirm the deceased’s basic information, and pulled out his bento box.

While picking at the contents, he scrolled through his phone with one hand. It was rare that people found their way to his private desk during his lunch breaks, and there wasn’t a rule that prohibited him from checking his phone during his reprieves. Hell, he could leave for the next hour if he really wanted to. 

> **Hanamaki Takahiro**
> 
> i hate applying for jobs end me now
> 
> will you cremate me when i die
> 
> **Matsukawa Issei**
> 
> if that’s what you want
> 
> **Hanamaki Takahiro**
> 
> i don’t even know what a resume IS
> 
> the fuck is a resume BITCH give me the job
> 
> **Matsukawa Issei**
> 
> i have no idea why no one has hired you
> 
> i mean you’re clearly a dedicated worker
> 
> **Hanamaki Takahiro**
> 
> screw you
> 
> i have only been fired TWICE

Matsukawa snickered to himself. If he thought that Hanamaki living under his roof would result in a decrease of incoming text messages, he was sorely mistaken. He hadn’t looked at most of them yet since he did actually have to get this paperwork done—otherwise he’d be joining Hanamaki in the _fired_ club. But he’d felt his phone vibrating from its position in his pants pocket all morning.

Matsukawa clicked out of their individual chat and selected another contact that he hadn’t heard from in over a week. As the phone rung, he braced it between his ear and his shoulder while he ate, waiting for the familiar voice to pick up on the other end.

Sure enough, it only took three rings. “Hey,” Iwaizumi greeted. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Matsukawa stopped long enough to take another bite. “If you’re busy right now, hang up. I just wanted to check in during my lunch break.”

“No worries. I’m free. You’re at work?”

“Yes.” On cue, Matsukawa pushed his chair back and kicked his feet onto his desk. No one was around to reprimand him anyway. “What about you?”

“I have today off. Thankfully.” He let out a low chuckle. “The first day off I’ve had in a while. I almost forgot what it was like to sleep in.”

“Sounds awful. The life of an athletic trainer sure is draining, isn’t it?”

“Oh, shut up. What’s new with you then?”

“Not much.” He chewed on a piece of broccoli. “Makki’s back in Miyagi, you know.”

“Oh.” There was a slight pause. “No. I didn’t know. When did he get back?”

Iwaizumi wasn’t as up-to-date on all of the ins and outs of the prefecture as he once might’ve been. He’d spent so long outside of Japan, and subsequently, he spent little time in Miyagi once he’d returned. He made trips home every once in a while to visit his family or catch up with their old team, but Iwaizumi was as elusive as Oikawa was these days.

“Last night.”

For a second, Matsukawa debated whether it was his place to tell Iwaizumi the reason Hanamaki had returned. He wasn’t sure if Hanamaki wanted to keep it a secret, out of his own personal interests or out of embarrassment that he’d never admit to. But Matsukawa felt that he needed advice of his own: even this morning, Hanamaki looked as though he were in a crazed state as he’d set his laptop on the kotatsu and got to work on filling out applications. Matsukawa understood the need to be productive—especially after being fired. Hanamaki wanted to get back on his feet as soon as possible. But Matsukawa didn’t want to watch him drive himself into the ground.

“He, uh, got fired,” Matsukawa said. “Again.”

“Damn it.”

“Yeah.”

“So he’s in Miyagi permanently?”

“No,” Matsukawa said. “I think it’s a temporary thing. He’s staying with me for a while until he finds work again.”

“Oh. I thought he would’ve stayed with his sister.”

“He doesn’t want her to feel responsible for him.” He dropped his legs from the desk the second he saw Onishi out of the edge of his vision. She didn’t wander over to the private sect of desks, but her gaze flickered over once. “So he’s staying with me.”

“I mean, that’s good, right?” Iwaizumi asked with a hint of uncertainty. “He stays over at your place a lot anyway.”

“I don’t mind him staying over.” That was the truth. No matter how much he complained whenever Hanamaki came without warning him in advance, he never _really_ minded. He didn’t care enough to let minor details like that stress him out. “It’s…I don’t know. I’m worried about him.”

“Why?”

“He’s acting like he doesn’t care about being fired. You know him. He’s all nonchalant about it. But I think it’s killing him that he’s had to come back from Tokyo. He doesn’t want to make it a big deal, but being fired twice is something that is going to get under your skin. It’s inevitable.”

Iwaizumi hummed his agreement. “That does sound like Makki. Is he doing something about it or is he moping?”

“When I left this morning, he had his laptop open like he was going to apply for a million jobs. Like, a _million._ I think I saw him apply to work at an electrical company. If I called for an electrician and Makki came through the door, I’d rather sit in darkness than let him look at my bulbs.”

Iwaizumi cackled. “Your bulbs?”

“Clearly, your boyfriend has been a terrible influence on you.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.” When the laughter stopped, Iwaizumi sobered up. “At least he’s doing something about it. That should be a good thing.”

“Is it? Or is he going to force himself into a hole— _for fuck’s sake, Iwaizumi, stop laughing—_ and wind up back in the same spot?”

Iwaizumi sounded like he had tears in his eyes. The giggles that wracked his body left him breathless, and it took several long gasps before he could breathe long enough to speak. “You really are on a roll today. You’re making it too easy.”

“Advice, please. You’re meant to be my rational friend.”

“The only one?”

“Obviously. I can’t have more than one. That would make _me_ rational.”

“Okay, okay,” Iwaizumi said. “You want my advice? This might be a good thing.”

Matsukawa needed more than that. He didn’t consider himself the king of giving advice, but if this was the extent of Iwaizumi’s goodwill, he needed a new rational friend. “How so?”

“Well, you know how Makki is. He rushes into things. He forgets to take care of himself. He’ll try anything for the sake of it. That all means that he can be kind of reckless. Maybe he needs some sort of constant in his life to help him through this.”

That meant— “I’m the constant?”

“Sure?” Iwaizumi didn’t sound all that certain. Matsukawa needed to at least invest in a back-up rational friend at this rate. “It could just be having a place to stay without worrying about rent or working enough hours. A familiar face always helps too. Makki doesn’t do well on his own. He needs something stable.”

“I never thought you would ever call me stable,” Matsukawa said. “Is this the end of the world? How would you like to die? Buried or cremated?”

“ _Stop_ asking me that. It freaks me out.”

Matsukawa returned his attention to his lunch. “But it’s so fun. Anyway, what’s going on with you?”

* * *

By the time Matsukawa clocked out of work and drove back to his apartment, the sky had darkened enough to spot a sprinkle of stars between the clouds. His stomach growled as he turned down the street to his apartment complex. One of the worst parts of being an adult had to be thinking of dinner each day and preparing it for yourself. He hadn’t appreciated how easy it had been to leave volleyball practice during high school and find dinner waiting for him when he arrived home. Now, he spent an awful amount of time bouncing between recipes and gathering ingredients.

_And_ he had Hanamaki to think about.

It wasn’t that Hanamaki was a picky eater or anything like that. Hanamaki would be happy with anything left in front of him. It was simply that he was another mouth to feed, meaning a larger portion of food was needed and it would take longer to prepare than usual.

As he clambered out of his car, swinging his keys around his finger, he tried to recall exactly what he had in his fridge. He should’ve stopped by the supermarket on his way home. Then he would’ve had the right supplies to make anything rather than having to create something on the spot.

When he shoved the door to his apartment open, he was met with a waft of egg and chicken. His eyebrows lifted without thinking about it, and he barely had enough sense to kick off his shoes before following the savory smell into the kitchen.

Hanamaki stood at the stove, the muscles in his back rippling as he hummed to himself, unaware of Matsukawa’s entrance. He wore Matsukawa’s apron around his front, a terrible gag gift that had been personalized with the words “Kiss the corpse” scrawled across the front, decorated in numerous tiny skulls. (Thanks, Oikawa.) It took Matsukawa a moment too long to realize what Hanamaki was doing: he’d _cooked_ for them.

“Makki?”

Hanamaki spun around. “Mattsun!” he greeted. “You’re just on time. Perfect. I made dinner.”

“I…can see that,” Matsukawa murmured, still too caught in his awe to muster much else. Hanamaki had always made an effort to be comfortable whenever he was at Matsukawa’s apartment, but something about a menial task like _cooking dinner_ felt domestic beyond belief. “Uh, what are you making?”

“You mean what I _made._ ” Hanamaki flicked the knob on the stove off before waving two plates in front of Matsukawa. Each dish had a serving of omurice, already cooked and ready to eat. “Omurice! Is that cool or what?”

Honestly, Hanamaki could’ve served him a half-burnt burger, and Matsukawa would’ve been grateful. The fact that he’d gone above and beyond to make him something _edible_ —even if it wasn’t the most difficult meal to make—made Matsukawa’s evening better already.

“That’s perfect,” Matsukawa said. “Bring it to the kotatsu. I’ll grab us beer.”

With their dinner displayed out in front of them, all there was left to do was enjoy. Matsukawa savored the meal as best as he could, even as his stomach urged him to lick his plate clean. He didn’t miss Hanamaki’s subtle glances his way as he ate, assessing to see whether Matsukawa liked what he’d cooked. But Hanamaki had nothing to worry about. It was delicious, the perfect combination of flavors to satisfy his hunger.

Hanamaki finished before Matsukawa did, and he watched Matsukawa with his chin propped in his hand, sipping from his beer occasionally. If it had been anyone else, the staring would’ve been peculiar. But this was Hanamaki. Everything felt normal with him.

“So,” Hanamaki began, “are you going to pay your compliments to the chef or what?”

Matsukawa picked up the last piece of broccoli on his plate before blowing a kiss into the air. “It was delicious. Incredible. I’m in awe.”

“Good enough to give me a brojob as a thank you?”

His gaze narrowed.

“Kidding!” Hanamaki raised his hands in surrender before resuming his usual position: chin in his hand, eyes on Matsukawa. “How was work?”

“Work was fine. I had a lot more paperwork than usual to do today, so my head kind of hurts. I was dreading thinking of something to cook for dinner. So thank you. Really.”

Hanamaki waved him off. “I told you I would do stuff around the apartment to make up for the fact that I’m leeching off you.”

“Did I even have all of this stuff in my fridge?” Matsukawa asked. It was about time for him to hit the supermarket and pick up his weekly share of groceries.

“About that. I went grocery shopping! Like an actual adult. Aren’t you proud?”

Matsukawa tried his best to keep his features still. Hanamaki had told him yesterday that he couldn’t afford to pay rent. How had he afforded the groceries? “You mean you bought this all yourself?”

“Yeah.” Hanamaki pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. “I even bought a peach. Look.”

He arched a bushy eyebrow. “You bought one peach? One, singular peach?”

“Well, I couldn’t afford to buy _two_ peaches. I am now officially broke.”

His stomach dropped. Any sort of satisfaction he’d gained from the meal had dissipated in an instant. Even though Hanamaki had said it with cheerfulness, Matsukawa couldn’t help but see it as false. “You spent the—you don’t…”

Hanamaki tilted his head. “It sucks, doesn’t it? I really should be freaking out right now.”

But he wasn’t, and that scared Matsukawa most of all. “I mean, yeah, probably…But don’t worry.” His mind was halfway through the mental calculations: he could easily afford to feed Hanamaki and himself without worry. “I’ll take care of it.”

His eyes crinkled. “You really do know how to win a guy over,” he said. “I can’t believe I have a sexy funeral home employee to dote on me.”

Matsukawa’s throat felt tight all of a sudden. “You didn’t have to spend money on me. You didn’t have to make me dinner. I feel bad.”

“Don’t,” Hanamaki insisted. “You didn’t ask me to make you dinner. I wanted to. Just to say that I appreciate it. And I know you hate cooking dinner when you come home from work. It’s one of your least favorite things in the world. You complain about it all the time. I was here, so it made sense that I take care of it. Do _not_ feel bad about it.”

Matsukawa exhaled through his nostrils. Even with Hanamaki’s reassurances, there was still an uneasy sensation swooping through the lower half of his body. He didn’t want Hanamaki to feel indebted to him. Hanamaki could’ve asked Matsukawa for the world, and Matsukawa would’ve laughed about the absurdity of it all before doing whatever he could to give it to Hanamaki.

“Anyway.” Hanamaki let both of his hands fall against the table. “I made a mess of your kitchen, so really, I didn’t do you much of a favor.”

“It’s okay. I’ll clean it.” Having to clean dishes paled in comparison to cooking dinner. No matter how Hanamaki looked at it, he’d done Matsukawa a considerable service. “What did you wind up doing today? Besides texting me dumb memes?”

Hanamaki barked a laugh at that. “Not much. I filled out a bunch of applications and sent my resume out. Hopefully, someone will answer me back.”

“They will.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

“Even if they don’t, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. You don’t have to ask.”

“But how am I meant to repay you if you won’t accept my brojobs?” Hanamaki asked with a cheeky grin.

“You can say it as many times as you’d like. It won’t catch on.”

Hanamaki huffed out a puff of hair. He dropped his chin against the table. “You’re no fun.”

Matsukawa dropped his own chin against the table, mirroring Hanamaki’s position. “But you love me anyway,” he said, echoing what Hanamaki had said to him yesterday, his exhalation of breath fanning Hanamaki’s face.

* * *

Hanamaki had stayed over at Matsukawa’s apartment for a whole week now. Their routine hadn’t changed much. Matsukawa woke up early to head to work, Hanamaki sat down to attend interviews over the phone or send out his resume again, Matsukawa returned, and the two sat on the couch watching television until it was late enough to turn out the lights and crawl into bed. Each night like clockwork, Hanamaki curled up on the guest futon while Matsukawa slept on the bed beside him. Occasionally, one of Matsukawa’s arms would fall over the side, and he’d feel a light pressure on his fingers as if someone had wrapped their hand around them for a split second.

If Matsukawa expected Hanamaki’s overall demeanor to change as the days went by, he was mistaken. Each morning, Hanamaki was chipper as usual, and even with his usual stream of complaints, he sat at the kotatsu without fail and resumed his usual process. Matsukawa watched Hanamaki with a careful eye, but nothing drew his attention that might’ve hinted at the turbulence inside Hanamaki’s mind.

A week passed before Hanamaki suggested a rift in the careful pattern.

“Can I come with you to work today?” he’d asked, brightening as Matsukawa had handed him a cup of coffee.

Matsukawa had merely lifted a brow. “Why? It’ll probably be boring. I have a few appointments coming in to discuss what they want to do with their deceased relatives, but other than that, it’s all paperwork.”

“I know,” Hanamaki had said after slurping down a mouthful. “But I’ve barely left the apartment all week. I feel like I’m going a little stir-crazy.”

“We can—”

“We don’t have to do anything special. Can I just tag along?”

Matsukawa had scowled. “I do have to work. You can’t distract me the entire time.”

He’d painted on a look of innocence, his lower lip jutting out. “I would _never._ If I’m remotely distracting to you, Mattsun, that’s out of my control.”

But Hanamaki was a liar. It was not out of his control, and perhaps he hadn’t done anything deliberately to demand Matsukawa’s attention, but his gaze drifted towards him regardless.

Several caskets were laid out in the reception area, each crafted with a different kind of wood, all different models and sizes. Matsukawa had hurried over once he’d heard that one of his afternoon appointments was waiting for him. The middle-aged man that had contacted him wanted to further discuss the details following his father’s death, and it was Matsukawa’s responsibility to explain all the avenues he could take in terms of the potential ceremony or how the body would be preserved—or not.

It was a simple task. It didn’t require much emotional involvement. Even if the relative happened to be teary-eyed through the whole exchange, that was an easy hurdle to cross. His brusque manner of speaking managed to turn the conversation back on track with ease, as he’d done so several times before, and every fact was laid out so precisely that there was no room for confusion or miscommunication.

It was meant to be easy. And it would be—if not for Hanamaki in Matsukawa’s field of vision.

Matsukawa held several pamphlets and information booklets in his hands—not that he needed to glance at them—and he’d memorized every necessary question to present to the other. But speaking with a straight face became so much more difficult while watching Hanamaki lift up the tops of each casket.

The man droned on in front of him, and Matsukawa made an effort to nod every once in a while so that he didn’t notice that Matsukawa was distracted. Meanwhile, Hanamaki sprawled on top of one of the caskets, checking to see if it was his size.

(He’d already asked Matsukawa if he would lock him in one to see what it was like. Matsukawa had told him no without mentioning that he’d already done it himself, and the fear that had embedded itself seconds after the lid had shut had overwhelmed him. He wasn’t letting Hanamaki follow him down his route of idiocy.)

Matsukawa coughed and directed his attention at the man in front of him once more. He couldn’t even remember his name. He couldn’t remember which of his relatives had died. This was a disaster. Even as the man’s brown eyes met Matsukawa’s, all Matsukawa could manage was a tight nod—even if he hadn’t heard the question.

His gaze slid past the profile of the man for one second, and he nearly choked on his own spit. Hanamaki was one-leg deep into one of the caskets, apparently deemed large enough to hold him, and Matsukawa watched him swing his other leg in.

“Makki!” he barked. In hindsight, it would’ve been better to pretend that nothing suspicious had been going on at all in the background. All Matsukawa had to do was keep his cool, and nothing would’ve happened. As it was, the second he saw Hanamaki climb into the casket, his instinct to stop him won out.

The man twisted around to spot Hanamaki halfway inside, though he’d frozen at the sound of Matsukawa’s voice. He held out a thumbs-up. “This one is pretty cozy. Were you thinking of burying your father?”

The man’s eyes practically bulged as he swung back to face Matsukawa.

Matsukawa was at a loss for words. The collar of his shirt felt tighter than it had moments ago, and a bead of sweat started at his forehead before trickling down the side of his face. With the most deadpan expression he could muster, he gestured at the collection of caskets—and Hanamaki by design—and asked, “Would you prefer to go about burial or cremation for your late father?”

* * *

Needless to say, Hanamaki stayed home the next day.

Matsukawa had another pile of paperwork awaiting him on his desk, and he managed to get through a large chunk of it before it reached lunch time, and he decided to take his break. Taking out that day’s bento box, he started in on eating the vegetables first. The contents of this box came as a pleasant surprise, considering it had been Hanamaki who had prepared it. Matsukawa wondered if this was his way of apologizing for any trouble he might’ve caused yesterday, but Matsukawa was already past it. He didn’t hold onto grudges or bitterness; it wasn’t in his nature to carry anger with him for longer than a day. Any strong bursts of emotion fizzed out over the course of a few hours, wheezing out as if his mind was a balloon releasing air.

Even if he was the kind of person to bear those kinds of resentments, he’d never hold them against Hanamaki. After the man had left, he’d burst into laughter so bellowing that it was out of place in a funeral home. Hanamaki had joined him once he’d realized that Matsukawa’s amusement was genuine.

Someone dropped a plastic tin against his desk, and he lifted his head to find Onishi taking the seat across from his desk. She said nothing while she took out her own bento box, fishing out her chopsticks, and starting in on the first few bites. Their lunch breaks usually began like this, with whole-hearted chewing before the conversation began, and Matsukawa waited for her to speak first.

“So,” she said before taking a long gulp of her canned coffee. Matsukawa had watched her down them several times since they’d started working together. It was inevitable. Their job demanded long hours on occasion, and he’d certainly shared one of those coffees with her during their rough evenings. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh no,” Matsukawa replied in mock despair. He picked up a clump of rice. “What is it now?”

“I have this friend.” She set her coffee down on the edge of Matsukawa’s desk, and for a split second, Matsukawa envisioned the nightmare of it tipping over and spilling over all of the paperwork that he’d completed that day. “I think you two would work out great together. She’s snarky. Pretty cute. Seems like she’s got your sense of humor. I think you’d be a good match.”

Matsukawa stilled. It wasn’t like he made a conscious decision not to date: it was simply that he didn’t have the time. He couldn’t devote what he lacked to another person. It was unfair on the other party involved. “Oh.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

Matsukawa snorted. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not really into blind dating.”

“Yeah?” She braced her forearms against his desk, her dark hair bouncing on her shoulders as she shifted forward. “What kind of dating are you into then? I don’t mind if you come out with us as a group to get to know her first.”

That didn’t make the circumstances much better. The endpoint still resulted in a date. That didn’t raise Matsukawa’s intrigue any more. “I’m not sure I’m into dating at all at the moment.”

“Are you ever? I can’t remember the last time you dated since we’ve started working together. Have you ever had a long-term relationship?”

That wasn’t a skeleton he liked to uncover all that often. But Onishi wasn’t off the mark. It had gotten to the point where Matsukawa wasn’t sure if his lack of interest in dating meant that he’d never have that interest—or if there was only one avenue he could take. One person that piqued his interest. He knew about attraction—was well accustomed to its various waves and ripples as it pulled him beneath the surface.

But whenever he considered the word attraction, it had only ever applied to one person.

“I just don’t really have the time,” he said, bypassing the question. “It’s nothing personal.”

“We have similar schedules, and I manage to keep up with my boyfriend.”

“You’re you, and I’m me.”

“What takes up your time then?” The question wasn’t meant to pressure Matsukawa. It was asked out of genuine curiosity, and while he considered himself an upfront person, this answer lay behind one of the doors in his mind that remained firmly shut at all times.

“Work,” he answered honestly. “My siblings. My parents. I meet up with old teammates from high school every once in a while. And my—Makki.”

Onishi returned her attention back to her lunch, sensing that a wall had been hit on the dating front. “Makki. That’s your best friend, right? The one that was here yesterday?”

For the briefest of moments, an invisible rope tightened around his lungs. It wasn’t like Hanamaki had been particularly troublesome, but he hadn’t flown beneath the radar either. “Yeah.”

“He’s handsome,” Onishi acknowledged. “Quite funny too. He came over while I had lunch, and we talked for a bit. How long have you two known each other?”

“Since high school.” The reminder of the length of time he and Hanamaki had known each other—and had stayed friends—never failed to warm his heart. It was like he couldn’t recall a time before meeting Hanamaki. There never felt like a before, only an after. “We played on the same volleyball team.”

“Right. You’ve mentioned that. Why did he stop by yesterday? What about his own job?”

Telling Iwaizumi had been one thing. The three of them had known each other since high school, and Hanamaki would be as open about it with Iwaizumi as he was with Matsukawa. Yet telling a stranger seemed undignified. He opted for the vague approach. “He’s in between jobs at the moment. He’s been staying with me.”

“Ah.” Onishi nodded her head. Finished with her bento box, she set it aside and picked up her coffee again. She tipped her mouth backwards while she took a few mouthfuls, then brushed a napkin over her lips. “That makes more sense. How is that?”

“Huh?” Matsukawa’s eyebrows lifted. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” Onishi shrugged. “If one of my friends said that they needed to crash at my place for a while, I’d be a bit miffed about it. I’m someone that likes my space, you know? Plus, I live with my boyfriend, so we’d never get to have a moment alone.”

“Well, I don’t have anyone that I’m involved with.”

“Yeah, but you always seem like a private guy. Like you enjoy your space and your time too.”

That wasn’t wrong. Matsukawa had always considered himself brazen in some regards, while in others, he could see himself as reserved. He never held back when it came to jokes or teasing remarks, but he didn’t feel the need to brag about every hitch in his personal feelings. He believed he was an easygoing person.

“Maybe,” he allowed, not willing to let her win outright. “But—it’s _Makki._ It doesn’t feel like he’s invading my space.”

Onishi cocked her head. “Why is that?”

“Huh?”

“I never feel like my boyfriend is invading my space, but that’s because we make room for each other. It’s like…he becomes the exception to a lot of my rules, you know?”

He didn’t know. Not exactly. But he could guess. “Well, Makki and I have known each other for a long time. We’re familiar with each other.”

“But you’re not around each other all the time now, are you?” Onishi asked. “He told me yesterday that he spent a lot of time in Tokyo, and you’ve never left Miyagi.”

“No,” Matsukawa said. The two didn’t share the same space nearly as much as they had in high school when they had shared everything: a court and a net and a ball that couldn’t hit the floor. “I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll ever feel like a stranger to me. Even if he changes his appearance or picks up a ridiculous new hobby or speaks in a different language, he’s still Makki. So it doesn’t ever feel weird.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

Onishi shrugged. “Nothing. So. He fits back easily then.”

_It’s like he never left_ , Matsukawa thought. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Matsukawa would recognize Hanamaki anywhere. It was like he said. The only person he’d ever met that could match him for each step he took was Hanamaki. He knew the force of each of his footfalls. It didn’t matter whether their paths diverged at points. Whenever they met up again, they complemented each other’s pace as if no time had passed.

“Yeah,” Matsukawa said in one smooth exhale. “He fits.”

* * *

Matsukawa thought of himself as a heavy sleeper. He’d endured an awful amount of _sleeping like the dead_ jokes from everyone he knew, but there was a certain amount of validity behind their remarks. Once he slid beneath his duvet at night, it took a few minutes to drift off, and until his body’s preprogrammed alarm clock went off, there wasn’t a sound in the world that could rouse him from his dreams.

As long as his curtains were drawn shut, the outside light blocked from slipping through the cracks, and his room was shrouded in shadows, he was never drawn out of his bed a minute earlier than he had to.

This evening was different.

Low light cast itself along the floor of his bedroom, reaching the empty guest futon, and if he listened hard enough, his ears picked up on the telltale sounds of commentary, the voices kept at a low volume. Matsukawa’s first instinct was to roll over and bury himself in his pillow until sleep brought him under again, but the rumpled sheets covering the futon was enough to make him pause.

Where was Hanamaki?

Matsukawa pushed himself up on his elbows. The commentary sounded so much louder now that he felt more awake, but there was a distance to them that implied that they came from the television. He’d remembered turning it off before heading to bed. He reached over to check the time on his phone, and his eyes bulged at the sight of the _3:00_ that appeared at the top of the screen. He had to get up for work in a few hours.

Yet an invisible forced tugged at him, urging him to stand and check on whatever was happening in his living room. He couldn’t fall asleep with the light anyway.

With a groan, he swung his legs around the bed, shoving his feet into the slippers that sat right beside the futon, and he shuffled out of his room.

Matsukawa wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. In retrospect, it made sense that someone would’ve turned on the TV again, and the only other person in his apartment was Hanamaki. (Unless his siblings were right, and his place was haunted.) But he never would’ve predicted seeing this version of Hanamaki.

Hanamaki stood in front of the television, a duvet wrapped around him tightly, cascading down to the floor where it brushed against his ankles. It was like he was stuck in a cocoon with only his head poking out of the top. His arm extended toward the screen, the remote clutched in his hand, and every few seconds, the channel switched, displaying a different sports match instead.

With only the light from the screen to guide him, Matsukawa took a few unsteady steps in Hanamaki’s direction. His voice was groggy with sleep as he mumbled, “Makki?”

Makki’s head whipped towards him, his lips parting in a silent _oh._ “Mattsun,” he whispered for some unknown reason. The two of them were wide awake now. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.”

Matsukawa looked past him towards the television. Every channel Hanamaki had gone through was sports-related. Was there a particular match Hanamaki was looking for? “What are you watching?”

“Oh.” Hanamaki returned his attention to the task at hand. He clicked through a few more channels at a rapid pace, each flying past so quickly that Matsukawa could barely note the teams’ names. “Oikawa has a game today. It started twelve minutes ago. I know we don’t get matches in Argentina, but I was curious whether you had the channel or not. I thought I’d check.”

“At three in the morning?” Truth be told, Oikawa’s match had slipped Matsukawa’s mind. The sense of pride he had while watching his former captain’s games hadn’t faded with time, a fact he was grateful for, but life had a habit of getting in the way of his momentary joys. He always made sure to look up the highlights online—at least. He spent most of his lunch breaks doing so before rewinding them from the video to note each and every single one of Oikawa’s most memorable plays during the match.

“Yeah.”

“I think you have to pay more for those channels.”

“I know,” Hanamaki said. The illumination from the television gave his eyes an eerie quality to them, as if he was caught in a trance. “I had those channels. I paid more for them while I was in Tokyo.”

His heart stuttered. Hanamaki—wonderful and brilliant and thoughtful Hanamaki—had set aside enough money each month for an extra sports package even though he’d been stuck at a job he’d hated to be able to watch Oikawa play. “What? What about the time difference?”

Most of Oikawa’s games fell during the afternoon which became the early hours of the morning in Japan. The first few times, Matsukawa had managed to stay awake even as his eyelids drooped, but after he’d fallen asleep at his desk for the second time in a row in one week, he had to stop.

“Oh,” Hanamaki said. “I’d set an alarm to wake up.”

“What about work?”

“Yeah, I was always dozing off throughout the days. I chugged down cans of coffee so that the caffeine would keep me awake long enough to do the important stuff.”

Matsukawa cupped his hands around his elbows. The image of Hanamaki tipped back his chair, his mouth hanging open as he snored, was one he was well accustomed to. “And you do this for every game?”

Hanamaki thought about his answer for a second. “I guess so. I don’t think I’ve missed one live. Uh, except for the last one he had a few days ago. I canceled my subscription after receiving my termination letter.”

“Makki…”

“I know it’s not that big of a deal,” he said. “Oikawa won’t mind. But it matters to me.” His expression fell, and Matsukawa didn’t have to look at his face to know that.

Hanamaki had never come across as someone who went above and beyond what was required of him. Whether it was his academics or his work or volleyball, he set a standard for himself and met that bar without fail. It wasn’t his fault that that standard didn’t always match the expectations others placed upon him. He was too much of a free spirit to dedicate himself too much to any one thing.

But while watching him flip through the channels in despair that he was somehow a terrible friend for not being able to watch the match live, Matsukawa’s very being reached for Hanamaki, wanting to wrap an arm around him, needing to push back that anguish until it couldn’t touch him.

But Matsukawa didn’t. He couldn’t. If he reached across that deserted plain, it would be like stripping himself and letting Hanamaki see the most vulnerable parts of him in return. He couldn’t do that. Especially not now. Hanamaki needed him to be his constant. He couldn’t ruin that sense of stability Hanamaki craved.

Swallowing past the dry lump in his throat, Matsukawa said, “We can find a stream online. Get your laptop.”

Hanamaki looked over his shoulder at Matsukawa. The overt gaping made Matsukawa squirm, but he didn’t rescind his offer—not for a second. “Okay!” It was like the distress in his features had never existed to begin with, a note of cheerfulness in his voice that almost made Matsukawa wonder if he’d imagined the pain in Hanamaki’s words then. “I’ll grab my laptop.”

As Hanamaki dashed into Matsukawa’s bedroom—their bedroom?—to fetch his laptop, Matsukawa settled down onto the cushions and wondered if this was what it was like to make room for someone else.

* * *

If there was one thing Matsukawa expected from Hanamaki each day, it was a string of text messages filled with terrible memes that made him crack a smile at work. It didn’t matter how diligently Hanamaki went about applying for jobs; he always found enough time in his day to contact Matsukawa with a joke intended to force him to loud out loud. It was like Hanamaki felt a special kind of joy in getting Matsukawa to laugh while working at a funeral home, as if it had additional bonus points behind it.

Some days, Matsukawa didn’t get the chance to scroll through their private chat until he clocked out for the day after a series of ceremonies and appointments and telephone calls. Some days, he only looked through them once he arrived home, crossing the path from his parking lot and up to his apartment.

But when he pushed open the door that evening, his apartment was more silent than usual. It had been like this before Hanamaki had moved in, making himself a permanent fixture in Matsukawa’s life again, the hush infecting every corner of the space. Somehow, he had familiarized himself with the usual pattern of that loud voice greeting him at the sound of his first steps, and the absence of it made him falter.

Most of the lights were off except for the one switched in the kitchen. The glow of the overhead lamp cast a shadow all the way to Matsukawa’s feet, and he paused long enough to take off his shoes before following the trail into the other room.

The sight before him caused his heart to skip a beat.

He’d expected the cracks in Hanamaki’s cheerful exterior to crack at some point. There was only so much a person could take before they buckled beneath the pressure—whether it was internal or external. Matsukawa had tried to assuage that weight as much as he could, but in the end, the force of it became overwhelming.

Hanamaki sat on the tiled floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, his back rested against the wooden cabinets. A bottle of wine was clutched in his tight grip, the cork rolling a little distance away. His eyelids were fluttered shut as his head tilted back, and for a second, Matsukawa wondered if Hanamaki had even heard his arrival. He hadn’t dressed that morning, still wearing a pair of boxers and a faded gray T-shirt with a hole in the shoulder.

“Oh, Makki.”

Hanamaki peeled one eye open. His voice cracked as he said, “Mattsun. You’re back.”

“Yeah.” His gaze swept the expanse of the kitchen, but it seemed like Hanamaki had kept everything contained to his personal bubble. There was no broken glass or busted drawers to concern him. All that had happened was he was out a bottle of wine less. Which didn’t matter—in the grand scheme of things. His worry was reserved solely for the person huddled on the floor, looking as though he was trying to become as small as physically possible. “What’s going on, Makki?”

His eye slid over to the bottle gripped in his hand. “Sorry. I’ll pay you back.”

There was a brief flash of anger that retreated as swiftly as it had come. This wasn’t about the money. He didn’t know how many times he had to repeat it before Hanamaki understood that he didn’t owe Matsukawa anything. “I don’t care about that. What’s wrong?”

Hanamaki blew out a bubble of saliva as his eyes shut once again. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

Matsukawa bent at the waist to unfurl each of Hanamaki’s fingers individually from around the bottle. Hanamaki didn’t put up much of a fight, his grip loosening once Matsukawa’s hand settled over his, and he let Matsukawa pry the glass away and set it on the counter. With the remaining wine safely out of reach, Matsukawa crouched in front of Hanamaki, ignoring the protest of his muscles as he did so. He hadn’t done anything like this since his volleyball days, even though he didn’t consider himself out of shape in any regard.

“Makki.”

“Nothing.” There was a long pause, and Matsukawa counted down the seconds before Hanamaki gathered his courage. “Everything. I don’t know.”

“Okay.” The admission was an important first step. He didn’t know how to help Hanamaki if the other didn’t acknowledge his own emotions. He still struggled with confessing his feelings himself. It made a great deal of difference that Hanamaki could at least acknowledge the storm brewing inside him. “Does your head hurt?”

“Mmm,” Hanamaki hummed. “No. I’m just sleepy.”

“Alright.” Matsukawa straightened, and the relief it brought his legs was instantaneous.

Before Hanamaki could protest, Matsukawa swept him up in his arms, one hand braced beneath Hanamaki’s knees while the other supported his back. Hanamaki squealed at the sensation of being lifted, but Matsukawa ignored his feeble protests as he carried him over to their bedroom. Hanamaki’s foot banged against the door on their way in, and Hanamaki screeched a loud “For fuck’s sake” before Matsukawa set him down on his bed. Not the futon. Matsukawa’s own bed.

Now that he was back on a solid surface, any further complaints Hanamaki had vanished from his lips. He pushed his feet beneath the covers, humming as he yanked them up to his armpits.

“Better?” Matsukawa asked as Hanamaki continued making himself comfortable.

“Mmm.”

“Okay.”

But before Matsukawa could do anything else, two hands shot out as quick as lightning to grip the hem of his shirt in tight fists. The alcohol hadn’t impacted Hanamaki’s individual strength, and Matsukawa could do nothing as Hanamaki tugged him—hard. The force of it was enough to make Matsukawa topple onto Hanamaki, and Matsukawa sucked in a breath as he braced himself on his elbows to keep his weight from crushing Hanamaki completely. Even with the precarious position they were stuck in, Hanamaki’s grip didn’t loosen.

His breath fanned the entirety of Matsukawa’s face as he spoke, their noses separated by a few inches of thin air. “Why does this always happen to me?”

Matsukawa had no idea what Hanamaki was talking about, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t frighten him a little. There had always been the assumption that the two remained on the same wavelength at all times, but he’d never felt further apart from Hanamaki—even as the heat radiating off Hanamaki’s body reached him.

“What are you talking about, Makki?” Matsukawa asked, his voice low.

Hanamaki shook out the front of Matsukawa’s shirt, the ripples tickling his belly. “You _know._ ” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “I try to hold onto as much as I can. But no matter how tight my grip is, I lose everything in the end.”

Matsukawa held his breath.

“I’ve lost not one but _two_ jobs. It didn’t matter how hard I tried. I lost them both anyway. I’ve lost Oikawa. I see him the most during his matches, and even then, it’s not enough. It never feels close to being enough. I’ve lost Iwaizumi. I barely even know what part of the world he’s in most of the time.” Hanamaki tilted his head forward, and his forehead brushed against Matsukawa’s neck. “I’m trying to hold onto everything I can, but I _can’t._ And I hate it. I hate feeling like I’m being left behind. I hate it. I don’t like feeling like this.”

Matsukawa released his breath at last, though his chest tightened at the pain in Hanamaki’s features as his head dropped back onto the pillow. It was—without a doubt—the most vulnerable he’d ever seen Hanamaki. There had been other moments, yes: the seconds that followed the last game of their high school career, the first time they’d gotten so drunk that they’d fallen asleep on top of each other, the last time Hanamaki had lost his job. There had been many moments, but none as emotional as this. This wasn’t so much a moment as it was a stream of pain that overflowed.

Matsukawa buried his head in the crook of Hanamaki’s neck, and he savored the catch in his breath. “You’ve still got me,” he whispered. “You’re still holding on to me, aren’t you?”

He felt the rumble beneath him as Hanamaki let out a low laugh. For a second, Matsukawa sensed the grip on his shirt tighten a fraction more. “That’s because my grip on you is the strongest one.”

_Oh._ Warmth pooled his stomach, and suddenly, every brush of skin against his made him shiver. It was like his senses had been overloaded all at once, a singular action heightening the impact of everything around him. Even the most effortless actions—like taking in a breath—became an impossible feat.

Any response he might’ve given melted away on his tongue. He had no words—nothing left to give. But he supposed that was alright. This was more than enough, the two of them hovering around each other, relishing in the proximity of the other.

“Issei,” Hanamaki whispered.

Every nerve in his body stood to attention, and it took everything he had to remain absolutely still. “Yes?”

“Is it okay? If I keep holding on to you?”

Matsukawa nodded against the side of Hanamaki’s head. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Okay,” Hanamaki said. His grip on Matsukawa’s shirt was as steadfast as ever. “Okay.”

Matsukawa sensed him drift off into an alcohol-induced slumber, but his grip never loosened once.

* * *

His body followed an internal clock that he couldn’t ignore when the sun rose over the horizon and the light crawled into his apartment. Hanamaki had barely moved all night, his soft snores the only indication that he was alive, and Matsukawa crept to the kitchen on light footing to keep from waking him before he was ready. He didn’t need to flick the light switch on in order to see what he was doing. While he hustled back and forth, he called his boss, lowered his voice, and said, “I’m sick,” with a straight face as his excuse for not coming into work. Even if his manager suspected otherwise, Matsukawa never missed a day, and it didn’t make sense to penalize him this one time.

Besides, he knew more than ever that Hanamaki needed him.

Matsukawa kicked the door open to the bedroom an hour later, and the sound of the knob banging against the wall forced Hanamaki to peel his eyes open.

“Mattsun?” he asked, his voice groggy with sleep. He sat up, the duvet pooling at his waist, and he rubbed at his eyes with both of his fists. Every time Matsukawa glanced at his hands, he remembered how tight his grip had been on him last night. As if even the slightest decrease in pressure meant losing Matsukawa to the wind forever. “What are you still doing here? Don’t you have work?”

“I called in sick.” Matsukawa raised the tray he held in his hands. “Make sure you sit up, or else you’ll spill.”

“Wha—what?” Hanamaki blinked a few times. “What?”

Matsukawa crossed the distance from the door to the bed, stepping over the guest futon, abandoned on the floor. “Breakfast.”

Hanamaki watched him for a few long seconds. He straightened against the wall and pushed the pillow aside. “For me?”

“Yeah.” With extra care, Matsukawa set the tray down in Hanamaki’s lap, careful not to make any sudden movements that would result in a mess. “Here.” He plucked the glass of water that he’d added to the tray and handed it to Hanamaki. “You should drink. Are you hungover?”

A furrow appeared between Hanamaki’s eyebrows. “No. I feel fine.” He made no move to start eating, and the longer he stared, the more Matsukawa worried if he had done something wrong. Hanamaki should’ve remembered everything he said yesterday. Perhaps the tension in the air was leftover embarrassment from that.

“Is it…do you not want it?”

“What? No. Of course I want it.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?” The display of vegetable soup, white rice, and natto wasn’t the flashiest of meals, but it covered all of the basics.

“I’m just confused.” At last, he tipped back the glass of water and took a few careful sips. “What’s the occasion? Is this how you warm me up to give you a brojob? I already said I’d do it.”

Matsukawa scoffed. “No. It’s not that.” This was harder than he’d thought it would be. It didn’t matter how close he and Hanamaki were. Telling someone his personal thoughts and feelings always became an impossible climb. “It’s more about last night.”

Finally, Hanamaki made a face that didn’t resemble confusion. Though his sad little smile did little to settle the nerves fluttering in Matsukawa’s stomach. “Sorry about that. I’ll pay you back for the wine.”

“For fuck’s sake, Makki, it isn’t about the wine. It’s about _you._ ”

Hanamaki met his gaze, his shoulders lowered. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Matsukawa insisted. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m glad you told me.”

Hanamaki returned his attention to the tray and brought the bowl of soup close to his mouth, taking mouthfuls down gingerly. When he set it down again, he murmured, “So what’s up then?”

Ugh. Matsukawa really did have to spell it out then. The two of them shared one brain cell between them, and of _course_ , it was in Matsukawa’s hands at the moment. He knotted one hand into his curls, yanking hard. “It isn’t easy taking care of yourself—is what I’m trying to say. Actually, it’s pretty damn hard. I think I’m getting good at it, but I still stay up too late sometimes or eat too much junk food or forget to respond to people.”

Hanamaki cocked his head. “Huh?”

Matsukawa nearly growled in frustration. He never considered himself a wordsmith. Why was this so _hard_? “Even if you’re not great at taking care of yourself, it’s okay. When that happens, it helps to have people around you—that can tell when you’re having a bad day and take care of you.”

“So—”

“ _So_ let me take care of you, idiot.” Matsukawa dropped his arm back to his side. Hanamaki’s eyes shot to his, and the split moment of connection made his heart stutter. “You’re not in this alone. You’re not going to lose me. Idiot.”

“Mattsun—”

Matsukawa leaned forward, crushed Hanamaki’s cheeks with both of his hands, and placed an aggressive kiss on his mouth, if only to get him to stay quiet for _once_ in his damn life. He felt rather than heard the noise of surprise Hanamaki made, and there was a clatter before something wet splashed onto his shirt.

“Oh shit,” Matsukawa muttered, releasing Hanamaki long enough to notice the stain on his front.

“That’s the soup,” Hanamaki said. “Or the rest of it anyway.” He let out a chuckle that started soft before turning into something loud and booming. He almost keeled at the waist from how hard he laughed. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and he lifted the backs of his hands to wipe them away. “You idiot. That’s the first time you’ve seriously kissed me, and you spilled soup on yourself.”

“I’ve kissed you before!” After all, attraction had only ever applied to one person in his mind. If Matsukawa was the type to get embarrassed, he was sure he’d be a sputtering mess about now. “We’ve kissed”—he counted off on his hands—“six times now!”

“Yeah.” Hanamaki’s lips curved up into a fond smile, the remnants of his burst of laughter lingering. “I know. I was there. I actually _have_ sucked you off before too.”

Matsukawa scoffed. “I know. I was there.”

“But this is the first time you were really serious about it. I could tell. In the past, we’ve always brushed past it afterwards. As if it wasn’t super gay of us.”

“Mmm.” Perhaps Hanamaki was a lot more of his firsts than he’d originally thought. He hoped he’d be his lasts as well. “Yeah. Well. How’d this one hold up?”

Hanamaki shrugged, all nonchalant, before righting the bowl again. “It’s my favorite thus far.”

A wave of relief washed over him, and for a moment, Matsukawa settled into this spot of happiness he felt. “That’s nice.”

“Mmhmm,” Hanamaki said, his attention averted to his rice. “Let me finish eating breakfast, and then we can try again.”

“Maybe I’ll let you give me a brojob.”

“Ah!” Hanamaki cackled. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to take me up on that.”

Matsukawa edged closer to the bed. He gestured for Hanamaki to slide over. “Make room for me, will you?”

**Author's Note:**

> oh hey i hope you enjoyed my christmas gift to you. 
> 
> i wasn't sure if i could pull off this pairing as i am not nearly as funny as either of them, but as i was writing this, i realized that they're so chaotic that anything goes with these two. anyway, this is my contribution to the matsuhana tag because i do adore them.
> 
> i'm not sure what i'll be working on next (???) but if you enjoyed this at all, please leave a kudos or a comment. your feedback really does make my day. i hope you have a wonderful holiday season and a great end to the year.


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